More uncommon than these calm afterglows are those sunsets, when fleecy cloud-masses are piled one above another, purple touched with fire, so that the very gates of heaven seem to open and give a glimpse of the glory beyond.
The glamour of the setting sun and of the afterglow transforms the east as well as the west, staining the mountain-sides a wondrous red, whilst the azure shadow of the earth mounts slowly to veil the roseate sky above. Once a feathery cloud-wreath soared in long sweeping curves from the horizon to the zenith, the strands of gossamer glowing with hues of rose, delicate and opalescent, a cloud of phantasy in a world hardly more real.
The common light of every day works other spells by simpler means. The vibration of subtle colour is gone, and in its stead there is the play of light and shade, or rather of light upon light, for the men of these desert tribes are clad almost entirely in white. The poor wear a white gandourah, a long garment of wool or cotton covered by one or more burnouses. The wealthy bury their garments of richly coloured and embroidered cloth, or even plush, under a multiplicity of silk and woollen robes of the prevailing white. The result is that white has here a value, a range of tone not often seen. Every different texture has its own peculiar tint of ivory, cream, or snow to distinguish each from each, and from that other white of the rough cast walls. And, as if that were not enough, age and dirt lend their aid to the variety already produced by texture and quality.
Touches of colour are rare, and these are given by the scarlet cloak of a Caïd, the blue of the Spahis, or the more barbaric reds and blues worn by a Bedawin woman. But of women there are few about. The throng that fills the market-place consists mainly of men and boys, busy buying and selling, seated on the ground with their wares strewn round them. Piles of oranges and lemons, vegetables of all familiar kinds, great heaps of corn spread on cloths, layers of flat cakes of bread arranged on trays, and most untempting masses of pressed dates. The buyers also squat down to examine their purchases, to talk and gesticulate; for it takes much time and consideration to choose and bargain for even a handful of oranges. There are also stalls such as are seen in any continental town; some full of cheap machine-made goods, others decked with curious articles to meet the village needs. Discs of red leather, carefully worked with colours and glittering with gold, conceal under a flap small mirrors, of which every woman wears one. Fans, like small flags, as gay as the mirrors; baskets, generally saucer-shaped, and of many colours; woven camel’s-hair belts, barbaric harness and saddle-bags, dagger-like knives in sheaths, beads and bracelets, and even stuffed lizards, are temptingly displayed to view. Under the arches are other shops and cafés, and everywhere are men, either sitting idly in the sun, their hoods pulled over their heads, or sleeping huddled up in their burnouses, shapeless as sacks, hardly human at all. The more dignified sit on carpets or matting under the arcades, drinking their coffee quietly, or playing games of draughts or dominoes with keen interest. One or more are always watching if the game is good. Cafés are everywhere, some provided with chairs and small tables, but they are only popular with soldiers, Spahis and the like. The carpeted dais or more humble matting laid down in the road itself, attracts the true Bedawin.
THE FRUIT MARKET, BISKRA
The only part of the town where white does not rule and colour runs riot is the street of the dancing girls. Hangings and draperies cover the green balconies with rainbow hues, whilst the handsome, dark-eyed women, with their heavily painted brows, rival each other in their vividly brilliant silks. Their dress is an odd mixture of the Oriental and European, after the fashion of a comic opera, not at all beautiful but quite effective. Especially so is the head-dress of skilfully knotted silken kerchiefs, heavily interwoven with gold and bound with silver chains, which also encircle the face, the forehead being covered with many coins. The women wear quantities of showy jewellery, but only the chains and ear-rings have any style or character.
Occasionally the streets are gay with flags and banners, as groups of men and children in bright array start on a pilgrimage to some Marabout. All the feasts begin in this way, with much beating of tom-toms and weird music, for as there is rhythm it would be rude to call it noise, as most people do at first. After a time, the sadness and monotony make their own appeal, expressing in another language, hard to understand and perhaps a little vague, the power and feeling of the land.
Now and then a Marabout returns the compliment, and visits the town with two or three followers, bearing banners of red and green, and a bowl to collect alms, accompanied by the inevitable tom-tom. He makes a slow progress through the street, the people hastening to greet him, and often to kiss his hands or the hem of his cloak. Some of these Marabouts are quite sane and dignified, whilst others are half-witted, ragged creatures.
Reading aloud is another practice most popular here. In the daytime a grave old man, book in hand, will take his station at a street corner, and read to a number of men sitting on the ground, and listening with rapt attention to his words. The passers-by stand attentively for a while, and generally end by joining the little circle. In the evening at one of the cafés there will always be a reader, a man with much dramatic power, who draws large audiences, who gather round to hear tales from the Arabian Nights.